


It Starts With An Earthquake, Birds and Snakes, an Aeroplane

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alpha Centauri - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), except ... the apocalypse actually happens in this one, the relationship was written as romantic but honestly you can read it however
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 19:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: The end of the world comes right on time.And for the first time, Aziraphale would rather be anywhere but Earth.





	It Starts With An Earthquake, Birds and Snakes, an Aeroplane

**Author's Note:**

> so my little ficlet on tumblr got kind of popular (like way too popular? yall are spoiling me) and i was inspired to write this   
> this one is ... decidedly more serious 
> 
> im on tumblr @ buckysbears

“So.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “That really happened, then.”

The demon hums.

“The end of the world, I mean.”

“I know what you meant, angel.”

Aziraphale turns to look out at the destruction before them—a world turned to ash and chaos. Surely, Adam didn’t mean for it to go like this, he thinks. He seemed like a very good boy indeed. Certain instincts took over, in the end, that none of them were powerful enough to stop.

His wings flitter, aching for the heat of the sun after so long spent pressed into his shoulder blades. There’s only a darkened sky full of soot above them.

“What do we do now?”

Finally, Crowley turns to look at him. His glasses are gone, torn off in the explosion of the end of times. For the first time that Aziraphale’s seen, his feathers look dirty and rumpled. To the sclera, his eyes have gone gold. Around the edges of his face, black scales rupture from under his skin.

“Not sure there’s much to do,” Crowley says, sounding … almost bored, Aziraphale thinks. It’s an act. “You know what’s going to happen next.”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale says, and, to be true, yes, he does. But he wants Crowley to say anything but that. “It’s not like I read about it in the paper.”

A little huff of breath escapes the demon, not quite a laugh. “They’re gonna make us fight, you and me. Demons versus angels. The final battle. They’re readying the troops down there, I can feel it.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and reaches up. Not with his arms, but his senses. That sixth sense that’s always tied him to goodness and virtue, to the divine upstairs. He reaches up, and feels with all his might.

His breath escapes in something like a sob. “I can’t feel anything,” he says, turning desperately to Crowley. “I don’t feel anything at all.”

The look Crowley pins him with is so sad and aching, it’s all Aziraphale can do to keep looking at him.

“Did they—?” Aziraphale blinks, and his mouth stutters open. He’s reaching out before he realizes it, craving the connection that was just cut off to him. “They don’t want me anymore.”

Crowley catches his hand without a second thought. “They didn’t deserve you, angel.”

He takes one deep, shuttering breath, and then holds. He can’t help the tears that prick at his eyes. “Is this … did I fall? Is this what falling is?”

“No,” the demon is quick to assure him. “You’d know.”

Aziraphale nods, taking at least a little comfort in that. He’s still, for better or worse, an angel. An angel without a tether in the world except the demon’s hand.

“What do we _do_ , Crowley?” He asks, voice tearing out of him with fear. “I mean- What do we _do_? I can’t- I _won’t_ fight. I won’t do it.”

“Fight or hide, we’re gonna die either way. Our respective agencies won’t exactly be happy with us.”

Aziraphale pulls back, anger on his angelic face, and misses the contact as soon as their palms leave each other. “No. No! You’re not giving up. Don’t do that to me.”

Crowley snarls, turning to face him and spreading out his arms. His wings, dirtied and battered, spread out behind him. “What’s there left to give up on? The world’s _gone_ , Aziraphale, it’s ended. The only thing left is the war. The war over the whole universe. There’s Heaven and Hell and the battlefield—that’s it. Nowhere left to go.”

“Alpha Centauri!” he shouts, and he hadn’t realized there were tears on his face until now. “We can go to Alpha Centauri.”

Crowley laughs, just one pained laugh, flexing his jaw. “It’s too late for that, angel. I asked you to go. I asked when we still had a chance, and you said no.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Well, I’m sorry. I … had hope. Forgive me for that.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says, a sigh hissing out through his nose. His expression softens. “Of all the people who need to be forgiven in this whole mess, you’re not one of them.”

Aziraphale smiles, and the smile hurts, this whole thing hurts, but he smiles. “I may have lost the other angels,” he starts. “I may have lost my bookshop and the park, crepes and sushi and good wine …” He struggles to keep the smile on his face, grinning through his tears. “I may have lost humanity, but I’m _not_ losing you.”

“Angel …”

Crowley looks taken aback when Aziraphale surges forward and links their hands, fingers slipping to lock in place with fingers.

“We can do this, Crowley. Not a blessing, not a sin. No temptations or miracles. Just us. Just the two of us. Making magic.”

Crowley’s lip trembles—not much, just enough for the angel to notice. He looks like he wants to give in, like Aziraphale’s temptation, or whatever you want to call it, has succeeded. “We’ve never done anything this big before.”

“Between the two of us?” Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “All the magic we have—all the magic we’ll ever need again. Between us, working together, I have faith that we can do it.”

“Faith,” Crowley repeats.

Their conjoined hands rise, and Aziraphale meant to kiss the back of Crowley’s, but his breath is coming out too shaky, and his muscles aren’t working right. Instead, he just presses it to his face and breathes, feeling the scrape of the rough scales.

“Faith,” Crowley says again.

Aziraphale hums.

“Let’s say we try. Let’s say we shoot ourselves up into space, and our magic runs out. And we’re just stuck up there. What then?”

Aziraphale breathes, in and out, in and out. He doesn’t need to, but suddenly he feels like he needs the air more than he has in 6,000 years.

“Imagine it, my dear,” he says instead. “Imagine a little cottage, up in Alpha Centauri. We’ll have a garden in the back with so many plants for you to torment. We’ll make breakfast, and stay up late drinking wine. I’ll have more books than I know what to do with, and I’ll read them to you. I know you don’t like books, but we’ll have to do something to pass the time.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, and he sounds a little choked, but Aziraphale isn’t going to open his eyes to check.

They both feel it. They feel both of them—Heaven and Hell, one ascending and one descending, their armies beginning to march.

The sky starts to rumble and the ground starts to quake. Any moment now, they’ll be here. The war will start, and that will be that. The end of the end. The war to end all things.

Aziraphale tugs, and then they’re slotted together, the two of them. It’s the closest they’ve been in a long time. His arms are wrapped around Crowley’s middle, so tight he can feel the thick scales on his spine from under his shirt. His chin is on Crowley’s shoulder, their heads knocking together as Crowley hugs back. Their two heartbeats—human and silly as it is—start to pound in time.

Aziraphale’s wings swoop low, and Crowley’s high. No one would be able to see them from the outside, just white and black feathers, all wrapped together.

“ _Imagine it_ , Crowley.”

Crowley tucks his face against Aziraphale’s neck and breathes a very shaky breath. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he’d think the demon was scared.

(Scared of what?

Everything. God Almighty, _everything_.)

“Can you see it?” Aziraphale asks, and he can hear the high-pitched desperation in his own voice. “Crowley, do you see the cottage? Do you see our stacks of books and the garden? What kind of tea will we have? Is it sunrise there? Crowley, _please_.”

Crowley squeezes him tighter, tighter and tighter, so tight it’s painful, not that Aziraphale is complaining. Just feeling Crowley’s arms around his shoulders is enough. Feeling Crowley’s heartbeat in his own chest, his warmth pressed against him. This might be their last moments together (this might be their last moments _period_ ) but that’s okay. They’re here, now. All wrapped up as one.

And the imagining, really, is all Aziraphale needs.

The ground opens, and the sky opens, and that’s it. The end of the apocalypse. The beginning of the war.

“I never said I don’t like books.”

And then Aziraphale gets _hot_ , hotter than he’s ever been, and he wonders if this is hellfire, if the demons found them first and this is their punishment being caught like this. He’s too afraid to open his eyes and check. He just holds Crowley tighter, and lets the heat envelope him.

It is interesting, though, after a moment’s thought, that he’s not _burning_. One should assume an angel would burn in hellfire.

And then he realizes that Crowley is holding him so tight for two reasons—one, Crowley is exerting a ridiculous amount of effort, so much so that his muscles are shaking, his whole body is shaking, his breath panting. Two, it’s not hellfire that’s making it so hot, but the sheer force of being flung so fast out of orbit and into space. Crowley just doesn’t want to slip and let go.

He can feel it. Aziraphale can feel it. Magic, wild and unclaimed. Not moral good or moral bad, not sin or virtue, just magic.

And then it’s done. There’s solid ground beneath his feet again, and Crowley slumps against him. Aziraphale holds him up, of course. He’s not the strongest of the angels, but he would hold Crowley up as long as he needed.

“Did you …?” Aziraphale pauses.

Crowley’s breath shudders out of him. And then, dreadfully slow, painfully, achingly slow, his black wings pull back. There’s an odd smell, one Aziraphale remembers from long, long ago. Burning wings. He could always smell it on new demons. He pulls back, taking in the demon’s face.

“Crowley, are you—?”

He tilts his head, and Aziraphale follows his golden gaze.

Above them, stars. Nebulae. As far as the eye can see.

And in front … a little cottage. There’s a picket fence, a yard with grass and a tree. He can see a trestle with tomato vines peeking out from around back. The cottage is white, with a dark red roof and red brick chimney. Beside it, a little stream.

It’s honestly and completely _exactly_ how he’d pictured it.

“Ssssssurprise,” Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale laughs, and it’s a joyful sound despite the tears that come out with it.

“It’s _perfect_ ,” he says. “Darling, it’s just wonderful.”

“You helped,” Crowley says, and it sounds like it takes great effort for him to get the words out. “Not a blessing or a temptation, not a miracle or a curse.” Crowley swallows, leaning into him heavier. “Just us. Just the two of us and one last bit of magic.”

“You’re spent,” Aziraphale says, because they’ve come so far together, but Aziraphale still doesn’t have the words for everything he wants to say. “Come now, let’s get you inside. We can sit and watch the sunrise through the windows, won’t that be nice?”

They cross past the little sign that says South Downs Cottage, Aziraphale supporting most of Crowley’s weight, and they open the front door.

And they do indeed watch the sunrise through the windows.

It’s not their sun. Not the one they’re used to, anyway. And the grass outside isn’t real grass, and the water in the stream is more what they both think water _should_ be like than actual h2O. It’s not their sun—but Rigil Kentaurus warms their faces all the same.

One day, the war might find them.

Or, Aziraphale thinks, it won’t. Maybe they’ll just make breakfasts, and he’ll watch Crowley as he works in the garden. Maybe Aziraphale will read him books while Crowley pretends to sleep. Maybe Aziraphale will learn how to actually sleep, a deep, restful sleep, in a big bed with a down comforter that they’ll share together. Maybe the war won’t come, and they won’t even be waiting for it.

Maybe the war won’t come, and it’ll just be the two of them forever, a former angel and a former demon, a little cottage and its three suns, and just enough magic to last for the rest of their lives.  


End file.
